TT: A month in the life (II)

Mrs. T remained under the weather throughout our honeymoon, and though she managed to stay afloat long enough to see Fallingwater, Kentuck Knob, and People’s Light & Theatre with me, she ran out of steam the next morning. Instead of bringing her back to Manhattan, I drove her all the way from Philadelphia to her mother’s house in Connecticut, where we reluctantly parted company. She went straight to bed and saw her doctor the next day, while I drove back to New York, arriving in time to catch a press preview of Pygmalion, knock out a drama column, and keep a long-standing appointment with six NEA Arts Journalism Institute fellows.
Two days later I went to the opening of William Bailey’s exhibition at Betty Cuningham Gallery. This wasn’t the first time I’d attended such an event, but it was my first one in Manhattan’s meat-packing district, which in recent years has become a magnet for artists, dealers, and scenesters of all sorts.
Whatever the opposite of a scenester is, that’s me, but I’d written the catalogue essay for the Bailey show, meaning that I was invited to the post-reception dinner. In addition to being curious about life after hours in the meat-packing district, I’d never met Bailey and wanted to know what he was like in person, so I put on my Black Outfit and headed downtown, nervous but game.
Betty Cuningham Gallery is a large-roomed space with gleaming white walls, all of which had one or two paintings hung on them. Each room was packed with interestingly dressed people, none of whom appeared to be looking at the paintings. Instead they were facing inward, sipping white wine and talking nineteen to the dozen about whatever it is that scenesters talk about. (I’m still not sure.) It goes without saying that I’ve attended more than my share of musical and theatrical events to which nobody was paying attention. Ned Rorem, if memory serves, once defined a concert as “that which precedes the party.” Even so, it’s customary to at least give the appearance of paying attention to the events taking place on stage. Gallery openings, it turns out, are different: nobody even bothers to pretend.
I circled the perimeter of the gallery three times, looking at the paintings with the same fascination and delight I’d felt when I saw them for the first time in Betty’s back room a couple of months earlier. In between I eavesdropped. Nobody was talking about anybody I knew, nor did I recognize anyone I saw. I usually run into friends and acquaintances on Broadway, at concerts, or in nightclubs, and when I go to a ballet or modern-dance performance, I sometimes come away with the impression that I know everybody in the lobby. Not so this time: I’d wandered too far from my beaten paths, and though I had at least as much reason as anyone to be there, I felt like a ghost.
An older man tapped me on the shoulder. “What brings you here?” he cried happily. I was so surprised to be recognized that it took a moment before I realized that I was talking to Albert Kresch.
“I wrote the catalogue essay,” I replied. “And what about you?”
“Oh, I’ve known Bill forever,” he said. “But I didn’t know his show was opening tonight–I was on my way to another gallery and thought I’d look in, and there he was.” He pointed out a tall, shy-looking man standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by admirers. “Aren’t these good paintings?” he said. Then he asked if I’d heard what happened to Larry Salander. All at once I, too, was part of the scene, dressed in black from collar to shoelaces and nattering away about the art world’s scandal du jour with one of my favorite American painters.
A half-hour later I was sitting across from William Bailey at an Italian restaurant around the corner from the gallery, surrounded by strangers who were telling stories about famous painters they’d known. I listened silently, feeling shy and awkward, the way I always feel at parties. But Bailey turned out to be perfectly approachable, and when he learned that I, too, came from Kansas City and loved jazz, the ice was broken. No sooner did I mention that I was writing a biography of Louis Armstrong than the painter sitting next to me told me that he’d known Ruby Braff all his life. My shyness fell away, just as it had when Al Kresch tapped me on the shoulder at the gallery, and I felt at home.
I called Hilary in Connecticut as soon as I got in a cab bound for the Upper West Side. “Did you have fun?” she asked.
“I had a ball. But you know what? It’s true what they say–nobody goes to an opening to look at the paintings.”
(To be continued)